


Nair

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean had a really good reason to put that Nair in Sammy's shampoo...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spectral_scribe](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=spectral_scribe).



“Where’d you get those?” she asks as soon as he gets his shirt off.

Dean glances down at his chest and smiles wide, with just the right amount of self-deprecation. “Mrs. Cameron’s cat. Climbed up a tree and didn’t want to come down.” Which is totally a lie because the batty woman who lives upstairs doesn’t even _own_ a cat, but there’s no way he’s going to tell Shelly that he got clawed by a ghoul. Besides, chicks dig sensitive guys, and nothing says sensitive like rescuing small, furry animals.

Sure enough, Shelly’s eyes go a little soft around the edges and she pulls his hand up underneath her shirt. Score! He is so totally in there, and Dad’s off looking for a new hunt so he has all night to…

“Hey, Dean, can…oops.”

Crap.

“What the hell, Sammy?” Dean growls, disengaging and sitting up.

Sammy’s standing in the doorway wearing hideous clown pajamas and with his hair all over the place. He looks innocent enough, but Dean actually _knows_ Sammy, and the fact that he’s wearing the pajamas is more than a little troubling. Sammy hates clowns—which, yeah, was why Dean bought that particular pair when Dad sent him to the store three days ago—and he’d sworn up and down that he’d rather go naked than wear them. Also, Sammy is smiling, and the last time Dean saw his little brother, Sammy was threatening to murder him in his sleep.

Dean narrows his eyes, shooting the kid a warning glare. He’s been working on Shelly for _weeks_ , and if Sammy fucks this up…

“Who’s the cutie?” Shelly asks. She’s peering over Dean’s shoulder, and Dean can feel his teeth clench as Sammy blinks up at her like some Disney caricature of himself.

“I’m Sammy. Who’re you?”

“I’m Shelly, Dean’s girlfriend.”

Sammy’s eyes go big and round and Dean _knows_ that he isn’t going to like what comes out of his little brother’s mouth next.

“Gee, Dean, how many girlfriends do you have?” And Sammy’s face is a picture book of childish confusion. If he doesn’t run real fast, he’s going to die with that look on his face.

Shelly pulls back a little. “What?” Her voice has gone cold and distant.

Dean turns to her hastily. “He’s lying, babe; I don’t—”

“He brought her home last night,” Sammy says helpfully, and he’s real lucky that Dean’s gun is upstairs in the dresser. “She had black hair and brown eyes, and a really deep voice. He took her shirt off right in the kitchen.”

Which was true, if you turned the girl into a thirty eight year old man by the name of John Winchester. Who had gotten ripped worse across the chest than Dean himself had and had to be stitched up while he sat at the kitchen table taking swigs of Jose.

Dead. Sammy was dead six ways from Sunday.

“I didn’t bring any girls home last night, I swear to God, I—”

“Okay, it’s true. I didn’t want to say it, though, cause he’s my brother and all, but it was actually a guy. And they went at it pretty hard, I mean—”

Shelly’s eyes dip to the scratch marks on Dean’s chest and widen. And that is fucking _it_. Dean’s off the couch and charging at Sammy, who’s faster than he looks, like some kind of mutant cockroach. Dean chases him down the hall where Sammy ducks into their room and snaps the lock.

“Don’t think I can’t pick that!” Dean shouts, pounding on the door. He can hear Shelly dashing out the front, and there is no way he’s going to be able to get her to _talk_ to him tomorrow, let alone to participate in any other extra-curricular activities he may have had planned. “You’re dead meat, you little shit!”

Sammy’s high-pitched laughter mocks him through the door. “Point for me!” he singsongs. “Who’s the pansy now, dickhead?”

Dean stops for a second and then yells back, “You did this because I bought you fucking clown pajamas, didn’t you?”

“Told you you’d be sorry, jerk face.”

“I’ll show you sorry,” Dean mutters, and starts picking at the lock. It doesn’t take him long to realize that Sammy’s done something to it, and he’s not getting into the room any time soon. “Damnit!” he swears, kicking the door. It rattles a little but doesn’t budge, and Sammy laughs again.

Stupid laugh. Stupid kid brother with his stupid pajamas and his stupid smile and his stupid hair… Dean starts grinning as the idea hits him. Oh yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Sammy can tell something in the hallway’s changed because Dean hears him creep closer to the door and then he calls, tentatively, “Dean? You still out there?”

Dean considers his options. He could wait out here for Sammy to get curious enough to open the door, or he could make a little trip down to the drug store before it closes. Do a little shopping. And really? The latter option won’t only last longer, it also won’t get the living crap kicked out of him by Dad the way that using Sammy as a punch bag will. Because Dad doesn’t really approve of Sammy’s too-long, too-shaggy hair either.

Dean hums all the way to the store.


End file.
